


The Apricot Promise

by Nico_Weetch



Series: The Collected Tellings of Shigir and Other Changeling Folktales [8]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Changeling Folklore, Excerpt Piece, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Original Character(s), Shigir Ideale, Shigir Ideale the Changeling Folk Hero, Shigir Stories, knife family, original lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23329834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nico_Weetch/pseuds/Nico_Weetch
Summary: As this series focuses on the growing mythology around the Changeling Folk Hero Shigir excerpts from other fics that mention, or take the time to tell, a Shigir Story will crop up. This is one of those occasions.That way everything Shigir related can be found in one place.This is an excerpt fromMeg13's work Fallout in which we collaborated on Ch23where this Shigir story occurs. SPOILERS for those who are not caught up to Ch23 of Meg13's Fallout.//In which promises are made
Relationships: Barbara Lake/Walter Strickler | Stricklander, Jim Lake Jr. & Walter Strickler | Stricklander
Series: The Collected Tellings of Shigir and Other Changeling Folktales [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1185968
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	The Apricot Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Again, and I can't stress this enough because I'd hate for there to be a misunderstanding, this piece is an excerpt from a /collaborative/ chapter between myself and Meg13 
> 
> Rest assured the part in italics of The Apricot Promise is written by me. 
> 
> Click [Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942624/chapters/49890149) to read the collaborative chapter within Meg's fic
> 
> And to read Meg13's Fallout from the beginning click [Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942624/chapters/34622105) ! (oof it's so deliciously good!!) 
> 
> Thank you! And enjoy!

Shortly after Jim returns from his first official audience with Gunmar the Black, Walter is summoned. And when he only provides defiant sneers and offhand insults in response to the Underlord’s questioning, things quickly turn violent.

The changeling finds himself being kicked about and slammed against a stone wall, he’s dangled above a nyalagroth nest and is very nearly crushed to death. But it isn’t until something snaps in his right wing and he bites through his own lip to keep from crying out, that he truly begins to wonder how much more he can withstand. He feels nauseous as he rolls onto his left side, flinching when Gunmar steps forward to loom over him once more…

And then Dictatious gives a casual, unaffected tut that somehow stops the Skullcrusher from inflicting further damage.

“All of this,” Gunmar growls as Dictatious motions to a pair of Gumm-Gumms, “for a pathetic human child.”

Walter spits out a mouthful of blood. “Jim is not pathetic,” he snarls back, the guards closing in on either side of him. “Mark my words, he _will_ win in the end.”

Gunmar gives a contemptuous snort. “Even if he does, whose side will you have defected to by then?”

“I would never –“

“Take him away,” Dictatious interrupts with an imperious wave of his hands. “And see that his wounds are treated. We have big plans for you, traitor.”

Which is certainly ominous.

But Walter doesn’t have a chance to contemplate all the unsavory scenarios Gunnar’s self-righteous minion is alluding to as he’s hauled to his feet and pushed out of the throne-room. He somehow manages to stumble back to his cell without much assistance from the Gumm-Gumm guards – though he does nearly knock himself out after ‘tripping’ over a small boulder in the path. It’s a good that he doesn’t, though, since Jim has already endured enough trauma during their little adventure and the last thing he needs is to watch as his father’s unconscious body is dragged into the adjacent prison cell.

As it is, the boy is huddled in the furthest corner of his own cell when Walter returns. He’s got his knees pulled to his chest, with his arms wrapped around them and his chin resting in the crease between his forearms. There’s a faraway look in his shining blue eyes and he doesn’t even acknowledge their presence until Walter grunts, “Young Atlas.”

The changeling’s voice immediately snaps Jim out of his daze, and he’s scrambling to his feet a second later. “I thought… I didn’t think you were coming back.”

“Don’t you know?” Walter sucks in a pained hiss as he’s shoved roughly into his cell. “I’ve got nine hundred lives.”

Jim lets out a strangled laugh.

“It’s alright, Jim. I’m alive and,” he grimaces, “relatively whole.”

“Is it broken?” Jim asks, settling down beside the small barred window that connects their cells together. He reaches his fingers through the gap. “Your wing? It didn’t look… right.”

“I believe so,” Walter says and gingerly lowers himself to the floor, manually readjusting his wing with a wince. “But it feels like a clean break, so I may not be grounded indefinitely. At least, not yet.”

He eases himself against the wall, the cool stone a welcome relief for his aching muscles, and politely ignores the sound of sniffles coming from next door. God. What if he _hadn’t_ come back? What if Gunmar had decided to kill him outright for his treachery? There would be so much left unsaid…

No. No, that simply won’t do. Because Gunmar _will_ grow tired of toying with him – he _will_ be disposed of eventually. And once he’s gone, who will guide his son? Who will teach him about his changeling heritage? Who will share their legends and lore with him?

“Jim? Do you…” Walter clears his throat. “Can I tell you a story?”

There’s a slight pause. “What kind of story?”

“The kind you should already know,” his tone is regretful, guilty. “The kind you should have grown up with, that I should have told you while tucking you into bed at night or on some rainy afternoon. The changeling kind.”

“Yeah,” Jim’s voice cracks and he sniffs again. “Okay.”

Despite the pain in his wing, Walter smiles. His boy’s first Shigir tale. Finally.

“This story was told to me long ago, on the eve of of a mission,” he starts softly, eyes falling shut as the memory of that night floats through his mind. “I was to be gone… Well. For a very long time. And that’s something you must understand, Young Atlas. Changelings are used to long separations. It’s expected.”

“How long was your mission?” Jim asks, sounding stuffy but curious. Good.

“A few hundred years,” Walter answers with a light sigh. He shrugs, even though he knows Jim can’t see it. “Give or take.”

“Geeze,” Jim mumbles. “And I thought that weekend in Florida was a long one.”

“Mhmm.” He can still _feel_ those mosquitoes swarming. “But two days can seem like an eternity when you’re away from those you love, can’t it?”

Jim lets out a shaking breath. “Yeah, it does.”

“That’s what this story is about,” Walter says, wishing he could sit beside Jim without bars between them. “And it’s just one of many. Lessons told in the form of old folktales and vignettes to younger changelings. I must admit, there are very few of us who have the pleasure of passing these stories down to our own children.”

“Lucky you,” Jim snorts, smirking.

“You’re damn right.” Walter grins. “Now, there are many… characters in the Mistress of Shadows’ court, but this tale is about Lord Shigir Ideale – the greatest trickster of them all.”

“Wait, who’s the Mistress of –“

“Ah, ah,” the changeling scolds and lifts his index finger off the floor just enough to waggle it. He supposes he _could_ explain who The Pale Lady is, but that’s a can of worms he’s not yet ready to unleash. “Rule number one: never interrupt the storyteller.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

“Now, our tale begins…” Walter pauses for effect. _”Long ago, when the seas were lower and the air was warm. Our hero Lord Shigir Ideale and their dearest companion, Ohou, had just finished a long mission delivering a message to the Great General._

_It was tedious and oftentimes dangerous work, but it was all part of serving The Mistress of Shadows and Her court in the long game against The Adversary._

_Our heroes were tired of walking the connecting under-paths below the hill-mounds. So, in their human forms and hand-in-hand, they slipped out from the side of the hill-mound and into the sun’s embrace – instantly warming their cold, damp bones._

_The grass Shigir and Ohou walked upon was so thick, they left footprints and the breeze blew through it in great rippling waves. There were huge storm clouds building down in the valley but the half-breeds weren’t worried, for the wind was in their favor and their walk would remain pleasant with the company of the sun._

_When the sun’s rays became too pleasant, our heroes, not wanting to return beneath the hill-mound, decided to wait out the heat in the shade of an apricot tree._

_And as they waited they…”_ Walter hesitates, forehead wrinkling as he tries to determine the most appropriate phrasing for what Shigir and Ohou did beneath the apricot tree. Shit. Had Barbara ever even given him the old birds-and-the-bees talk? Or was Jim’s knowledge limited to Coach Lawrence’s educational films from the seventies? _“… laid with each other?”_

“Dude, I’m in AP English.” Jim rolls his eyes again. “And you didn’t tell me that they’re… what? Married? Dating?”

“Neither.”

“Ah. Friends with benefits.” Jim smirks and nods his head knowingly. “Like Mary Wang and Tight Jeans Hank.”

“I thought Mary and Hank were a couple,” Walter says, frowning. He swears the last he heard in the teacher’s lounge is that they were on again.

“Nah. They broke up, like, a month ago. Now they just flirt with other people at parties, but make out with each other anyway.”

Walter tilts his head. “That’s not friends with benefits.”

“Yeah,” Jim snorts, “it is.”

“No. That’s just snogging your ex,” Walter informs the teenager before letting out an exasperated sigh. “And now we’ve gone completely off topic. Where was I? Ah, yes.

_Minutes slipped to hours under the apricot tree. But life has its seasons and as much as Shigir and Ohou would have liked to stay under the tree until it flowered again, a thunderous crack brought an end to their time there. Shigir immediately reached for his famed shepherd’s crook, as Ohou went for her own weapon – a war axe with shark’s teeth called Rehsurc._

_This thunderous sound, however, did not come from the storm brewing in the valley or a monster for them to fight, but from the sudden appearance of hooves descending from the clouds. Which were followed by the sharp crack of a whip._

_The changelings instantly understood what – or rather, whom – was approaching and quickly adjusted themselves. Then they bowed, stealing but a single glance at one another before staring into the grass. For what changeling didn’t recognize the Mistress of Shadows’ gold troika –“_

“What’s a troika?”

“What?”

“What is a troika?” Jim repeats, pointedly enunciating each word.

“I thought you were in AP English,” Walter jabs back with a click of his tongue, earning an annoyed grunt from his neighbor. “A troika is a sleigh or carriage, usually pulled by three horses.”

Jim purses his lips, nodding. “Got it. Continue.”

And now it’s Walter’s turn to roll his eyes. _“… with its ribbons and streamers and precious jewels, and bells on the side that only rang when The Mistress of Shadows wanted to be heard._

_It raced through the sky at a furious pace, and the sun would seemingly flinch, dimming with every crack of the driver, Balaga’s, whip. But then it would brighten all the more, casting even longer shadows for the troika, it’s passengers, and the three quadrupeds that pulled it._

_After all, there can be no shadow without light and our Mistress is ever so fond of duality._

_The beasts in front were magnificent – the first with hooves, the second with talons, the third with paws – and though the middle was without a head, it’s brothers on either side, with only halves themselves, would come together to form a single face when Balaga brought them to a stop. As their hooves and talons and paws touched down, they roared and they cawed and they gargled – only stilling once their master commanded them to with another crack of his whip._

_Balaga then hopped off the troika and walked to the side. He bowed low before The Mistress of Shadows, then the kneeling changelings, and once again to his Mistress. Then, as conduct commanded, he stamped his foot and cried, “Our Lady of Caverns, our Mistress of Shadows, Eldritch Queen, She with many names!”_

_Shigir and Ohou bowed their heads once more. As did Balaga – who walked backwards with a presenting hand._

_The Mistress of Shadows tilted her head, her gold headdress tinkling. “Rise, Lord Shigir. Rise Volcanic Ohou. It is good to see you are well, my children. Come and greet me. For I have another task for you.”_

_She then extended her hand for them to kiss, and the changelings rose. Lord Shigir stepped forward first, with a flourish of his shepherd’s crook, followed closely by Volcanic Ohou. Flipping her axe, Ohou stepped down and asked, “In what way may we assist you, Your Highness?”_

_The Mistress smiled. “Lord Shigir is to go down a cruel road – an Avitac Road – where they will meet with Death to find and collect my newest instrument. For I wish to speak with a new sound.”_

_“That sounds quite hazardous,” said Shigir, trying to remain stoic before his Mistress. He had once made a bargain with Death, but had never travelled with him before. Or so our hero thought._

_“Indeed,” said the Mistress of Shadows, untroubled._

_Shigir gripped his crook. “Should I fail you?”_

_“I shall find you another task. As is the way.” The changelings bowed their heads, and their Mistress laughed. “But I am confident in your abilities, Shigir. I did not gift you the title of Lord for nothing. And you wouldn’t be so bold as to imply I was wrong to give you such a title.”_

_“Never!” Cried Shigir. “After all, who – if not I? – could trick Death to strike a bargain? Who – if not I? – could trap a vile Gumm-Gumm in a sack of flesh? Who – if not I? – could present you with such a faithful troika driver? I have done so much and more, my Queen!” He gave his crook a twirl and hooked Ohou, guiding her to his side. “And that was just on my own. Why, the things Ohou and I have done together in Your name… Surely there is nothing we can’t handle together!”_

_“No,” said the Mistress of Shadows, the ice in her voice freezing the changelings and making them bow once more. “Ohou is to come with me.”_

_Shigir lowered his crook to let Ohou step forward at their Mistresses’ beckon. “My Queen?”_

_“You, Volcanic Ohou, will be my First in Command. You will guard me before, during, and after my procession into the heart of the Great General’s camp.” She then turned Balaga and on a whimsy, as is the way with most deities –“_

“Wait, a deity?” Jim interrupts, shifting to look through the barred window. “Like a goddess?”

Walter mulls over the question. “Something like that.”

It’s not the answer Jim is looking for, but there’s something – uncomfortable? – in the changeling’s tone that keeps him from digging any deeper. “Will you… Can you explain it later?”

“Yes, of course,” Walter promises with a faint smile. He clears his throat and continues, _“She then turned to Balaga and said, “I will go by palanquin. It shall be a most grand affair.”_

_Balaga simply nodded, but Ohou’s jaw dropped._

_Usually the Mistress of Shadows sent curriers or members of Her entourage, like Lord Shigir, to speak to the Great General for Her. A demonstration as grand as a procession could only mean a show of power and, perhaps, strife in their dealings. If things didn’t go well in the Great General’s camp… Well, Ohou would be forced to use her famed axe._

_The changelings shared a look. For it seemed they would both be going on very dangerous missions, and it had been many moons since they had last gone their separate ways. The mere thought of it now gnawed at their insides in a way neither quite understood just yet. As love –“_

Walter tilts his head to hold his son’s bright gaze.

_“ – in all it’s many forms is hard for a changeling to come to terms with.”_

Jim’s brow furrows and Walter looks away, suddenly self-conscious. Shit. He’s made things awkward. “Young Atlas…”

“I wish you were always my dad,” Jim murmurs. He blinks and shakes his head. “I mean, I know you’ve always _been_ my dad. But, like… I wish you were around when I was little. You know? ‘Cause I think I would have really loved listening to you tell me this story as a kid.”

The changeling slowly lets out a deep breath. “And I would have really loved telling it to you.”

“Okay, sorry,” Jim says after a moment of silent emotional digestion. “You can finish it now. I promise I’ll stop breaking rule number one.”

“See that you don’t,” Walter laughs, though it becomes more of a pained grunt as the shaking of his shoulders irritates his broken wing. “Alright, okay. Ahh… Right.

_The changelings had not yet to realize their true affections, but the Mistress of Shadows saw all – what was, what is, and the many could-be’s in between – and some say the strength of Shigir and Ohou’s bond cast fear into not just the Great General, but the Mistress of Shadows as well._

_“And so,” commanded She, “it is decided.”_

_Our hero, Lord Shigir, tried very hard not to cry._

_Stepping in front of him to block his tears from their Mistress’ view, Ohou said from the earth in her heart, “Thank you, Mistress. Of course we shall comply and try not to convince you otherwise, but – if I may – ask but one humble request?”_

_“Go on.”_

_“Can I have a brief moment to bid farewell to my fellow half-breed, your faithful Lord? As we do not know when next we shall meet.”_

_“If at all,” said the Mistress knowingly. “I’ll allow it.”_

_Shigir and Ohou bowed deeply, walking backwards until they were seemingly out of sight behind the apricot tree. There they embraced, and Shigir allowed his tears to fall freely. They felt no shame – as no one should. “I think,” whispered a trembling Shigir, “I shall miss you terribly. And think of you so often it shall be hard to breathe. It will be hard to be without you by my side, even for a little while, as I have grown accustomed to your friendship.”_

_Ohou rolled her own teary eyes and said bluntly, “Dearest friend, dearest companion – I dare not think about what will come of me when we separate. Who will nearly beat me in a sparring match, or make jokes at the court? How will I endure without your insufferable laugh?”_

_“What is more famous than a changeling’s endurance?”_

_The jest caused more of Ohou’s tears to fall._

_And in the quiet embrace that followed – with eyes that looked up to the waving branches of the tree – an idea came to the mind of our crafty hero. He pulled two long strips from his garb and handed one to Ohou. Then he plucked two apricots from the tree. “Eat this, quick, and dry the pit when you’re done. I have just thought of a trick to ease our hearts.”_

_Ohou smiled, and tapped her apricot against Shigir’s in cheers._

_They ate and when there was nothing but a dried pit left, Shigir tied it to his string with a knot. As they worked, they explained, “Tie your apricot pit to the string. It will be the first of many knots to come, as every time we miss each other or wish to speak with one another we will tie a knot on our string.”_

_“But what if I run out of string? For I know that in I’ll have run out of room within a week.”_

_Shigir blushed. “Then add more string and more knots until we meet again!”_

_“But…” said Ohou, frowning. “There’s a chance we may never see each other again.”_

_“Yet, there’s a chance that we will.” Shigir’s starlit teeth sparkled. “Then you will be happy that we’re tying knots. It’s a deceptively subtle trick,” they squeezed Ohou’s hands, “but… perhaps it will help when the moon passes too slowly or the hours feel long.”_

_Ohou braved a smile. “I believe you.”_

_Then they tied their strings onto each other, embraced one last time, and went their separate ways – with Ohou sitting beside Balaga at the front of their Mistress’ troika and Shigir striding to the Avitac Road to meet with friend Death._

_It would be a very long time before Ohou and Shigir were reunited again, and the apricot tree they made their promise under saw many seasons and bloomed many fruits. During their time apart they faced countless hardships and struggles, but what’s important to this story that their knots grew and grew and grew. And when their strings ran out of knows, as Ohou had predicted, more string would be fashioned to the first. Knot after knot, string after string – each little happening one wished to share with the other was added, so as not to forget._

_It helped to ease their hearts, and pushed away those torturous thoughts that the other may have already played their last trick. Though there were days when tying knots couldn’t soothe the ache of separation and on those days, the strings would become salted with bittersweet tears. On those days, when the pain was too much, they would sing a song to lift their spirits._

Do you want to hear it?” He asks softly. “I’m afraid my singing voice won’t be quite as angelic as it is in my human form, but it should do.”

“You know the song?” Jim sounds tired, relaxed even. And though the old assassin in Walter wants to scream at him to remain vigilant at all times, the father in him just wants his boy to get some goddamn rest.

“Why don’t you shut your eyes and listen? Imagine yourself in Blinky’s library, or maybe in your living room –“

“Our living room,” Jim corrects with a yawn. “Mom’s gonna let you come back, but you gotta grovel.”

He sincerely hopes so. “Just imagine you’re somewhere familiar, somewhere comfortable and safe and warm. Alright?” He hesitates briefly, uncharacteristically shy (but then it _has_ been a few centuries since he last sang in his troll form), then – 

_Apricot, Apricot I hope my friend won’t rot_

_Hear me as I tie this knot_

_With a wish (that all is not for-knot)_

_We will tie you as you are tied_

_Like a subtle bribe_

_So the Fates won’t bat their eyes_

_And close their eyes on us (and close their eyes on us!)_

_O’ my friend as you tie_

_Know that I am tying too_

_With each knot that I tie_

_I’ll be closer to you_

_(I’ll soon be closer to you)_

“Tha’ was good. Sing it again when…” Jim yawns and twists into a more comfortable position, palm pressed against the cold cell wall with his cheek resting on top. “We get out of here.”

“Yessir,” Walter says, refusing to let his own tired mind replace the boy’s _when_ with an _if_. “Would you like to hear the rest of it, or should I let you sleep?”

Jim sniffs sleepily and murmurs, “Rest of it.”

_“It was a smile of Fate that Shigir and Ohou reunited under the apricot tree – both barely able to believe the sight of the other was real and not another dream. In fact, Shigir’s delighted scream scattered birds as he used his shepherd’s crook to pole-vault to a teary Ohou._

_They kissed and danced and sang and drank – and danced some more – no matter the sky’s temperament, until they were finally able to settle down long enough to string together full sentences. And when they did, they were finally able to direct their attention to each other’s collection of knots. Collections that were so large and filled with so many trinkets they looked like a robbed magpie’s nest braided together. There were ribbons and bobbles, bones and acorns, locks of hair and – in Shigir’s case – one of his own famous starlit teeth. Ohou’s even had one of their Mistress’ silent bells._

_All woven together like a knotted tapestry. The sight made their hearts swell with that same feeling they still did not quite understand. And so, Shigir’s trick to outwit the ache of separation worked…”_

The end of the story is met with the deep, measured breathing of an exhausted teenager – a welcome sound for a parent whose child has had very little sleep over the past few weeks. Wait. Has it been weeks? Or have months passed by without their notice?

Walter frowns and _almost_ suppresses a groan as he gingerly raises himself up off the ground. The small pouch fastened to his waistband is easy to slip around to the front; or, it would be if the effort didn’t put unnecessary pressure on his broken wing. Either way, he manages to pull it forward before settling down with a whimper and a grimace.

His head falls back against the bedrock, eyes closing when his clawed fingertips dig into the slip of leather. There isn’t enough room to add a trinket _every_ time he thinks about her, but he does count thirty-two pebbles, chips, and shards of precious stones as he sifts through the contents. He adds a knotted swathe from his own loincloth to the mix.

It’ll have to do for now.


End file.
